


Gauntlet

by youcouldmakealife



Series: Impaired Judgment (and other excuses) [21]
Category: Original Work
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-08
Packaged: 2019-04-20 02:52:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14251494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youcouldmakealife/pseuds/youcouldmakealife
Summary: “You just — you were good at it? Like, you looked like you knew what you were doing, and—”He grabs Jared’s hand, pulls it towards him, and Jared blinks and lets him.“I kind of love your hands,” Bryce says, presses his mouth against the thin skin of Jared’s wrist, right over his pulse. Jared wonders if he can feel it start to speed up.





	Gauntlet

**Author's Note:**

> Note: Should have mentioned this last part, but I was just as much at a loss as Jared on what to get Bryce for his birthday, and it’s thanks to Alison, my own personal Raf, who gave me the homecooked meal idea, that I didn't just stare despondently into space for days and wait for inspiration to strike. Thanks babe. <3

It’s a little different making dinner when you’ve got an audience. It’s not like Bryce is wordlessly staring at him as he works or something, which would be creepy, or really commenting on the prep itself, other than an impressed sounding comment as Jared chops the veg, like cutting it uniformly is some amazing talent. Though, like, judging by Bryce’s cooking — or lack thereof — maybe he’s just shocked whole vegetables can be reduced into the smaller vegetables he eats? 

Jared is sadly only mostly joking.

So yeah, it’s not like he’s backseat cooking or staring or anything, he just talks about training and a call from his mom, a card she sent him. It makes Jared want to ask why he didn’t tell him, but maybe it’s just weird to like, go ‘hey it’s my birthday coming up’ when you aren’t a kid anymore, looks like you’re asking for something. Still, if there’s anyone you should be able to ask to acknowledge your birthday, it’s probably your boyfriend.

It bugs him, a little, but he focuses on the prep work, then sets the microwave timer after he puts the food in the oven — the vast majority of the cook time needed — and heads out to the living room to wait it out. Bryce, thumb in Jared’s belt loop, mouth against his throat, still seems intent on setting his kitchen on fire, but Jared is strong, and the thought of fucking up a birthday dinner is enough to get him disentangling himself from Bryce after a few kisses — okay, like, maybe fifteen — and ignoring Bryce’s tragic face.

“Dinner first, sex later,” Jared says.

“We were just kissing,” Bryce protests, but looks a little guilty when Jared gives him his best sceptical look, because that wasn’t ‘just’ anything.

Despite Bryce’s best efforts to distract him, dinner comes out unburnt and on time. “This is really good,” Bryce says, halfway through demolishing his plate, and it _is_ actually really good. The practice run was totally worth it. There was too much salt and too little garlic the first time according to the peanut gallery — once he forced some constructive criticism out of them that wasn’t just calling him weird — and he has to admit they were right. Plus, pulling the chicken out a tiny bit earlier takes it from sort of dry to perfect. Good to know once he moves out of home he isn’t going to starve or need to live on delivery like Bryce.

He doesn’t want to think about that right now. Not like, moving out of his parents’, because that’ll be cool, but he doesn’t know where he’s going to go, whether he’ll be moving ten kilometres or three hundred or four thousand. And if thinking about maybe asking Bryce for some Flames tickets is premature, thinking about where he’s going to be in a year or more and what that’s going to mean for them is crazy fucking premature.

He shoves a potato into his mouth, trying to get his brain back on track, and Bryce, nudging his foot under the table, thankfully brings it right back into the room, even if that results in a kicking contest under the table, one Jared wins when Bryce goes ‘fuck, ow, okay!’.

Maybe Jared shouldn’t be kicking the birthday dude, but like. He wasn’t kicking _hard_. Love taps or whatever.

That’s not — like taps? Like taps.

“There’s more in the kitchen,” Jared says, after Bryce cleans his plate in record time, especially considering he was being kicked for a minute there, and grins down at his plate when Bryce gets up for seconds.

“You’re awesome at cooking,” Bryce says, when he comes back. “Seriously.”

“It’s not hard or anything,” Jared says. “People cook all the time. It’s kind of an important life skill.”

“Are you dissing me right now?” Bryce asks.

“I’m honestly always dissing you,” Jared says. When he isn’t like, breathlessly praising him, but that’s usually in Bryce’s bed, which is a whole world of its own. “Maybe I can teach you or something.”

“But I suck at cooking,” Bryce says. “And you’ve clearly got it down.”

“You’re just trying to scam food without doing anything, aren’t you?” Jared asks.

“No,” Bryce protests. “I just, it’s really good but mostly — I liked watching you.”

“Because you didn’t have to do anything,” Jared says.

“No, like,” Bryce says. “You just — you were good at it? Like, you looked like you knew what you were doing, and—”

He grabs Jared’s hand, pulls it towards him, and Jared blinks and lets him. 

“I kind of love your hands,” Bryce says, presses his mouth against the thin skin of Jared’s wrist, right over his pulse. Jared wonders if he can feel it start to speed up.

“Yours aren’t so bad either,” Jared says, a little uneven. ‘Soft mitts’ is like the definition of Bryce’s puck handling, and Jared already thought his hands were pretty awesome, like, in a hockey way, but now that Jared’s had those hands on him, he’s vaguely concerned he’s going to need a pillow in his lap if he’s watching a Flames game around other people, because _damn_. “You should, um. Eat?” Before Jared gets distracted. More distracted. 

“Okay,” Bryce says, a shiver of breath and stubble against Jared’s skin, and releases his hand.

Jared maybe rushes through the rest of his plate, and it seems like Bryce is doing the same thing. Jared’s just about to say fuck it about cleaning up, even though his parents stress this is the most important part of cooking, drag Bryce straight to bed, except fuck. The cupcake.

“There’s dessert,” Jared says, and when Bryce’s mouth curls up, “Mind out the gutter, Marcus, I got you a cupcake.”

It got a little squished in transit, which sucks, but like, cupcakes are cupcakes, and when Jared tastes the icing at the top of the box, it’s good. He doesn’t have a candle or anything, but he tries not to cuss himself out for not thinking about that, because sugary goodness is obviously the important part.

“Vanilla’s my fave,” Bryce says, and Jared doesn’t know if he’s just saying that or something, but he feels good about taking his time picking it out, even if he just ended up going with the most common flavour there is. Too good about it to make a joke about how he hopes Bryce isn’t _too_ vanilla, because like, you know what? If what they’re doing is vanilla it is a-fucking-okay by him. 

“You want half?” Bryce asks, after he’s taken off the wrapper. “I’m pretty full.”

“It’s your birthday, dude,” Jared says.

“And I want you to have half,” Bryce says.

Obviously Jared can’t argue with what Bryce wants on his birthday. Also that icing was really good, so Jared _guesses_ they can split it. The icing tastes better when it’s not box icing, and Bryce grins at him with these like, chipmunk cheeks because he’s the kind of idiot who eats a cupcake in two bites, and god, Jared hopes he isn’t wearing everything he’s feeling on his face right now. Unfortunately, he’s pretty sure he is.

“Can I have the other dessert now?” Bryce asks, when Jared picks up the plate with all these noble intentions of cleaning up.

“That was terrible,” Jared says, shoving his shoulder, but not like, terrible enough that he’s saying no or anything.

Bryce’s mouth is icing sweet, the same as Jared’s must be, and is it really cheesy to say it tastes best on his tongue? Probably. Definitely. Too bad, he’s already thought it. Icing sweet, and hot, the same as his hand as it slides under the waist of Jared’s shorts just enough to stroke his thumb over Jared’s hip, his other hand slipping under Jared’s shirt and settling against the small of his back, pulling him in tight enough that Jared can feel Bryce half-hard against his belly.

Jared puts the plate blindly back down onto the table, walks backwards, just as blindly, in the direction of Bryce’s room, hoping Bryce is paying enough attention to keep Jared from running them into a wall.

The dishes totally aren’t getting washed tonight, are they? Whatever, that’s a problem for Bryce tomorrow, when it isn’t his birthday anymore. Birthday Bryce can have whatever the fuck he wants, because Jared’s pretty sure it’s exactly what he wants too.

*

What Bryce wants to do is touch him, which is, as expected, perfectly in line with what Jared wants. Jared kind of expected something quick, ramping up as fast as that kiss did, zero to sixty, but once Bryce has him laid out he slows down, back to deep, heady kisses that leave Jared breathless, head swimming, his hands everywhere under Jared’s clothes but not bothering to take them off.

Scratch that, Jared is putting in a formal complaint about the fact they’re both still clothed. 

“I’m putting in a formal complaint,” Jared says, because when he says he’s going to do something he does it.

“What?” Bryce says, pulling back. “Did I—”

“Clothes,” Jared says, before Bryce can start asking if he did something wrong, which, obviously not, except for the stupid clothes thing. “Why are we still wearing them?”

“I want to take my time,” Bryce complains, as Jared nudges him away just enough to give himself space to strip. 

“You can still take your time,” Jared says as he kicks his shorts off, which is a blatant lie. Except apparently not, because Bryce goes back to the same shit as before, just sans clothing, touch so light it’s more a tease than anything else, mouth mapping Jared’s neck, the hollow of his throat, probably leaving traces of stubble burn in his wake, and when Jared shifts his hips up, trying for friction, Bryce pulls back just enough to infuriate him.

“C’mon,” Jared says. Whines. It’s probably whining. “You’re aware I have curfew right? So some time in the next million years would be good.”

“Just let me,” Bryce says, punctuates it with a sweep of his thumb over Jared’s nipple, gone tight, a squeeze of Jared’s wrist where he intercepted his hand on its path to taking care of shit himself, and Jared exhales shakily, heart ratcheting up even more, not knowing which hand’s responsible for that.

“Let me—” Bryce says, lets go of Jared’s wrist and replaces his hand with his mouth, an edge of teeth, and Jared’s hands, suddenly free, fly up to land in Bryce’s hair. “Yeah?” Bryce asks, and apparently yeah, something Jared doesn’t even have to say out loud for Bryce to take it as like, a challenge, hot mouth and perfect hands working together until Jared’s so sensitive he has to push Bryce’s head away. The direction’s only incidentally a downward one, but Bryce takes that as a cue, lips following the flush crawling down Jared’s chest to where Jared wants him most.

There’s no taking their time after that — Bryce could _try_ , but Jared’s pretty sure he’d go off like, well, a teenager, regardless. Thankfully he’s quit taking it slow, mouth downright merciless, and Jared barely manages to warn him in time for him to pull off, stroke Jared through it.

“Jesus Christ,” Jared pants at the ceiling. 

“Good?” Bryce asks, and Jared’s not even sure if he’s being smug or genuinely asking.

“You’re the worst,” Jared says, then, “Lie down, I wanna do you.”

“You sure, ‘cause we can take a min—” Bryce says.

“Shut up and let me blow you, Marcus,” Jared says, and Bryce doesn’t argue after that.

*

Jared’s had a couple naps at Bryce’s before, dozing in front of the TV, sucking in the sunlight filtering through the curtains on a lazy afternoon, but the drowsy feeling’s different tonight after Bryce pulls the blankets over them, plasters himself against Jared’s back. Bryce’s breath is hot against back of his neck, Jared’s eyes heavy, even though it’s way earlier than he’d usually fall asleep, and he knows if he gives into the feeling it’ll be sleep, not dozing. Jared’s so, so tempted to curl even more into him, shut his eyes, but his ass is going to be so grounded if he misses curfew.

God, he wishes he could stay.

Bryce’s hand squeezes his hip, mouth brushing the back of his neck, and Jared, with very little success, tries to convince himself to sit up.

“God, I fucking love you,” Bryce mumbles against his skin.

Suddenly Jared’s wide awake.

Maybe he misheard. Maybe Bryce said he loved his hands again, or —

He hopes Bryce can’t feel the way his heart’s started to beat double time, slowly pulls away to ensure that, enough that his back isn’t pressed to Bryce’s chest. He tries to keep his breathing even, though it’s harder than he would have thought. The room feels too small, Bryce too close, but if he pulls away now, Bryce is going to know why.

“I should head home,” Jared gets out when Bryce’s breath starts to slow, and Bryce is apparently too close to asleep to realise Jared’s still got two hours until curfew, because he lets Jared untangle himself from his grip without protest. 

“I’ll walk you out,” Bryce mumbles.

“Dude, you’re already half asleep,” Jared says. “Don’t worry, I won’t get lost on my way to your door.”

“Kay,” Bryce says, but then reaches out at Jared after he’s gotten dressed. “C’mere?”

“Yeah?” Jared says, and when Bryce makes grabby fingers, comes closer, Bryce’s hand curling around his. Jared — Jared really needs to get out of here before he does something stupid.

“Thanks,” Bryce mumbles.

“For walking myself out?” Jared asks.

“No,” Bryce says, blinking sleepily at him. “It was a really good birthday. So. Thanks.”

Jared’s supposed to be escaping, but he can’t help but pause long enough to lean down and press a kiss to Bryce’s sleep-warm cheek for that.

“Happy birthday,” he mumbles when he pulls back, and flees in slow-motion so he doesn’t raise any suspicion.

*

Jared’s heart pounds the whole way home, like he’s just finished a shift, feels like keeping his hands tight on the wheel is the only thing that’s stopping them from shaking. 

It’s stupid to get worked up like this over a single fucking sentence. He’s not going to lie to himself, pretend he misheard it, because he didn’t, but it’s like — it’s obviously not true. 

Everything Jared’s ever heard about love — outside of fiction, that is — stresses that it takes time, and devotion, and overcoming obstacles together or some shit, that there’s no way that in a matter of weeks you can be anything but infatuated.

Like, Jared wants to spend all his time with Bryce — and basically does — and spends the time they’re not together impatiently waiting for that to change, and Bryce is his first and last thought of the day — and an embarrassing number of thoughts in between — but those are probably just like. Infatuation things. He doesn’t know. He means, he’s definitely infatuated, but he doesn’t know if infatuation and love are mutually exclusive or complementary or one leads to the other or what.

Still, they haven’t even been dating a month, it’s fucking absurd to say it. It’s just…endorphins or something. Bryce loves orgasms (who doesn’t), Jared provided an orgasm, Bryce’s come dumb brain connected the orgasm to Jared. That’s it. There isn’t anything else to it. He shouldn’t be freaking out. Bryce probably won’t even remember he said it tomorrow morning, especially once he sees the complete mess Jared left in his kitchen.

Except the thing is, Jared, knowing it can’t be anything more than infatuation at this point, knowing Bryce couldn’t mean it, Jared had to force himself to bite back an ‘I love you too’, and it’s still sitting there on the edge of his tongue, impossible to swallow back now that he’s thought it.


End file.
